


Out Looking for Woodlice

by celestialskiff



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Drug Use, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, PTSD, Rape/Non-con References
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-17
Updated: 2012-02-17
Packaged: 2017-10-31 08:14:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,530
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/341896
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/celestialskiff/pseuds/celestialskiff
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Originally written for a request on the kink meme, which asked for Sherlock having been in an abusive relationship with Sebastian, and John helping him heal from it. Reposted and cleaned up a bit.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Out Looking for Woodlice

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings: Drug use, rape, physical abuse  
> Spoilers: Nothing beyond 0102

The cherry trees ( _prunus padus_ ) were in blossom, and the air was warm again. Sherlock's fingers were still stiff with a cold they had acquired in January and not yet lost, and his head ached. He didn't really register the cherry blossom, but he noticed the warmth against his hands, and noticed that his skin was dry and had cracked across the knuckles.

Most things were boring: his lectures, his flatmates, the passage of time. Most things were boring, and then there were problems that were insurmountable.

Sebastian's needles were always carefully sterilised and neatly kept in clean plastic tubs. Sebastian's table was always clear and there were never any socks under Sebastian's bed. Sebastian was good at doing two things at once: at making the most dangerous habits seem normal and acceptable and simultaneously making you feel more worthless and more filthy than you had ever felt before in your life.

Sherlock's fingers were stiff with a cold they had acquired in early January, when he'd waited for hours outside Sebastian's rooms, head aching, unable to leave, and he struggled to find his vein, to depress the plunger. And then: there. He lay on the bed, warming up, eyes on the blotches of pink cherry blossom he could see outside. And then he closed them as Sebastian's cock entered his mouth.

*

Most things were boring, and then there were problems that were insurmountable.

He looked in the mirror. Bruises. Bruises along his veins: he'd thought he had good veins, but they were harder to find lately, the skin reddening under the needle. Bruises on his throat, long and dark. Those were from last night. And then other bruises, ones he could not account for, on his shoulders, over his kidneys, on his arse.

His body was stiff. Sometimes he didn't want to see Sebastian, often he didn't want to see Sebastian, but Sebastian had things he needed.

Sebastian's flat was so tidy. The walls were painted deep blue and he had a red counterpane. He kept things in drawers: narcotics, wads of cash. Condoms. He wore protection when he fucked Sherlock. “Who knows where you've been?” he said, and he called Sherlock a slag, which was silly, because Sherlock hadn't been anywhere.

Sherlock had been high the first time they'd fucked, and almost every time after that. He didn't like it when he wasn't high. He felt the bruises more keenly, then, the pain in his arse, radiating inside him. He wondered why people did it, without drugs, but he didn't understand why anyone did anything. He could only observe.

*

“I've been taking too much,” Sebastian said, two months after leaving university. “I'll save it for you and me, eh? Our little parties.”

Sherlock agreed. Sebastian had gone to London and so had he. Sherlock's apartment was small and full of woodlice ( _oniscus asellus_ ). He liked woodlice. He used to look at them under the microscope when he was a child. He hadn't got out his microscope in a long time, and his violin was wedged on top of his wardrobe.

Playing helped him think. He didn't want to think.

He had bad dreams, and they were mostly about Sebastian. And then he went to see Sebastian, and he wondered if he were living the bad dream, but there was morphine or intravenous cocaine, his dear twins, and they softened everything.

He kept finding new bruises on his body. He ached and he never stopped aching. But that was all right.

*

Some problems were insurmountable, and there were some he could solve.

“I could not get through the week without knowing my faithful slag would be waiting for me,” Sebastian said. He was pinching Sherlock above the hips, tugging him against his body to get a better angle for his cock in Sebastian's arse, but there wasn't much flesh on Sherlock's body and he couldn't get much leverage.

He'd been thinking a lot about crime lately. So many crimes were so easy to see through. Sometimes he missed his microscope.

Sebastian's hands were round his throat. “God, you fucking love this don't you,” Sebastian said.

“No,” Sherlock said. He said it often, and whenever he said it he realised he'd said it before, but it was never heard, and he hated the sound of his voice, catching on the syllable.

Afterwards he looked at himself in the mirror. New bruises bloomed down his sides, now the colour of cherry blossom against his pale skin.

*

Mycroft helped him get clean. He was willing to give Sherlock money for that, certainly.

Sherlock got his violin out. He played a lot of Rimsky-Korsakov, a lot of Dvořák, a bit of Prokofiev. That was just how things went.

Sebastian kept emailing him: Don't you miss getting fucked. I've got more of your favourites, junkie. Don't think I don't know where you are. You owe me, buddy.

He didn't delete them. He left them up on the screen until a new one came in. Sebastian seemed to be thinking about him a lot.

He read a lot of papers. Wondered if he should tell anyone that he knew how to solve their crimes.

*

At the time he hadn't thought he'd minded. The bruises. The cock down his throat. He hadn't wanted it, but his No hadn't counted for anything. He said it often, but every time he said it felt like the first time, and knowing it would go unheard made speaking pointless. There was also the ache in his brain that went on and on and on. Sebastian's hands on his skin, the bitter taste in his mouth. And then the clean pleasure of the drugs making everything recede.

At the time, some problems had seemed insurmountable, and he hadn't thought he'd minded. Later, it seemed like he did mind, each encounter playing out again and again inside his thoughts.

Stupid, he'd been stupid. Being an addict was stupid.

*

John didn't like alcoholics or junkies. John's skin was scarred and he trembled at night, but he was somehow alarmingly whole, painfully solid. The house was safer with him in it.

Sherlock knew he could look after himself now. But it was still nice to have someone around who would kill for him if required. He looked at John's hands, at the steadiness of John's hands, and felt secure.

He slept on the sofa. He tried not to think about Sebastian. He tried not to think about bruises on his skin, bruises around his veins, red and swollen and swallowing his flesh. He didn't like his bedroom or the light in the hall or sleeping without his back against something. He didn't really like closing his eyes.

Sebastian hadn't emailed for years. And then he emailed.

Hey Buddy.

*

(Stupid.) He took John. Sebastian would see he was protected. (Stupid.) He was different now. Sebastian would see. (Stupid.) He would never be afraid of Sebastian again if he could look at him now and see how worthless he was. (Stupid.) Sebastian would know he had no control now. (Stupid.) Sherlock had the power now—Sebastian needed him and not the other way around. (Stupid.) John would know somehow, instantly, and kill Sebastian for him. (Stupid, stupid, stupid.)

*

Sebastian was only thirty minutes away by cab. Forty-five by bus. Twenty-five by tube. Sherlock couldn't sleep, he was too busy adding the numbers. Too busy knowing how close Sebastian was. Sebastian smelt the same—cologne and mint and moth balls. Couldn't sleep because he couldn't stop thinking about cologne and mint. Staring at the ceiling. John was asleep. John was silent. The house was silent. He wished John would have a nightmare, would need the loo, something, so he could hear him, moving around upstairs.

Why couldn't they sleep on the same floor? Why was he trapped here by himself?

He was safe. He wasn't safe. He'd never been safe.

He was never safe when he had his own brain to contend with.  
*

Sebastian kept emailing him.

Hey buddy. Guess what I have for you. Hey buddy. Does your little friend fuck you like I used to. Hey buddy. Does he know how rough you like it. Hey buddy. Does he know you're a junkie. Hey buddy. I understand what you need, you slag.

He couldn't sleep.

*

“I'm concerned,” John said.

He'd been on the sofa for a while. The world was tilting on its axis, gentle, around him. He hadn't eaten in a long time. It takes a long time, but eventually not eating makes you feel strange and high and distant. After two weeks of not eating you feel wonderful.

Had it been that long?

“I'm concerned.”

He kept thinking about the bruises on his ribs. He wished he didn't remember, but he did remember. Sebastian's hands, the violence of him. His strange determination to mark Sherlock as his own.

“I can't sleep,” Sherlock said.

“I've noticed,” John said. Pressing his hands together. Such steady, careful hands. “You've not eaten either.”

The press of food against his tongue, holding it down. The choking sensation of swallowing. He didn't really like putting anything in his mouth.

“Sebastian keeps emailing,” Sherlock said. He was thinking about bruises, John's hands, and cherry blossom. He got his laptop out. His hands trembled. He was going to show the emails to John, because he wanted someone to know.

Eventually you want someone to know. Eventually you can't deal with only your memory of the marks on your skin. You want someone to say, “That must have hurt.”

It was hard to say it though. He could say a lot of things but he didn't know how to say that. (Sometimes I don't talk for days.)

He showed John the emails. There were three new ones since he'd last checked.

Sebastian really was thinking about him a lot.

*

John was angry, and Sherlock liked that. And then it was too much and Sherlock wrapped his dressing-gown around himself and curled up, knees against his chest. There was no way to lie down without making himself feel exposed. You were vulnerable lying down. Someone just had to push you in the right way and you opened up like an envelope. But he couldn't stand because his legs were trembling, and sitting made him feel dizzy.

John kept talking about calling Lestrade.

“No,” Sherlock said.

John kept talking about it.

“No,” Sherlock said again, and the way John looked at him he thought perhaps he'd shouted it.

John nodded. He looked at Sherlock, at Sherlock's position. His gaze was so searching that Sherlock wanted to hide his head under a pillow. He'd known that telling someone wouldn't make everything instantly better. But somehow it was disappointing that it hadn't. He felt raw. Naked. Like John was looking at him naked.

“Right then,” John said. He looked away from Sherlock, down at his hands. Sherlock looked at his hands too: there was sometimes very comforting about John's hands. “Sherlock,” he said. “How long did it go on for?”

It was good to have a question he could answer. He said, like he'd been replaying it in his head over and over, “Most of university, and approximately nine months afterwards.”

“Oh,” John said. And then, “God.” And then, “Do you want me to just shoot him, then, so we won't have to bother Lestrade?”

Sherlock grinned, and then he laughed. John looked at him like he might have gone mad, and then he smiled too, gentle, anxious. Sherlock shook his head, and then put it down on the sofa cushion. He felt suddenly, miraculously, sleepy.

*

John was kind and kept bringing him tea and various kinds of food (apples, cream crackers with cheese, beans on toast, chocolate hob-nobs, tinned pineapple) and asking him if he'd slept. Usually he hadn't slept.

He didn't know what to do with John's attention. The emails from Sebastian slowed down. He played the violin and remembered Sebastian's hands on his throat and hated having things in his mouth. Around John, now, he just felt naked.

And then there was a case and, briefly, everything went away.

*

“The hard part is all the time in between,” John said.

“Yes,” Sherlock said. He felt at the edges of himself, like he had run out of energy and sense and breath.

“I always hated the night,” John said. He paused. “I always hate the night.”

Sherlock realised it was two am. He looked carefully at John. John hadn't slept yet. He didn't know how long John had been in the room. He'd been thinking. He'd been far away.

He told John about spring and the cold in his hands. He told him about not being able to find his veins. The words seemed to come from nowhere.

John listened. Later Sherlock played a lullaby on the violin, wondering if John would recognise it as such. John didn't say anything, and he didn't fall asleep, but his face softened, and he drew his legs up under himself on the chair, and he looked smaller. Somehow more manageable.

*

They touched hands one night, later, when Sherlock was hopelessly awake, thoughts wandering through his mind like fish, thoughts he couldn't quite focus on and couldn't make go away. His skin felt raw, he felt exposed. It was another night when he didn't feel like he could lie down.

John pressed his knuckles against Sherlock's, the rough skin of the back of his hand feeling warm and alien against Sherlock's own. Sherlock pressed back into it, surprised. He hadn't thought he could stand anyone touching him again, at all.

They stayed like that for a few moments, and when he looked at John's face it was strangely anxious.

“I don't know what to do for you, at all,” John said.

Sherlock said, “You don't have to do anything.”

“I want to,” John said. His voice sounded raw, unguarded.

Sherlock suddenly felt very tired. “It's fine,” he said. He folded his hands in his lap, feeling the place where John's warm skin had touched him. He wasn't sure what to say, if he should say _You are helping_ ; he wasn't sure if that was true. He wasn't sure if he needed help.

*

It was April and Sebastian hadn't emailed him for months. John had told him to delete all the emails that thronged his inbox, and he hadn't wanted to, but then one day he felt like he couldn't do anything else at all until he'd deleted them.

“I miss woodlice,” he told John. “There aren't any in this flat.”

They got two buses and went for a walk in a wooded area on John's insistence. Sherlock wasn't sure if he wanted to walk, and he didn't think they'd find any woodlice.

They didn't. They just walked. Sherlock was tired and hungry, and his head hurt. The long, familiar ache. They sat on a bench, and through the foliage Sherlock could see cherry trees and almond trees coming into blossom.

He was here. And John was beside him, solid and constant. It wasn't enough, it didn't make the nights easier or the days shorter, but it was something. The sky was clear, and his fingers were warming up.


End file.
